CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
We're back in the interrogation room at 11:58.
Weese sits silent
We wait.
When George Weese says “noon” he means noon.
When the big hand and little hand are finally facing skyward, he sighs.
“Touché, Officer Ceepak,” he says. “Touche! Perhaps you aren't quite the ignoramus I assumed you to be. That bit with the trajectory? That was good. Hadn't expected that one.”
“Who is your partner?”
“I enjoyed our little pas de deux. Did you?”
“Who is he?”
“You mean my friend? Once upon a time, when I was younger, this obnoxious beach bully sprayed grape soda on my swim trunks. He warned me not to tell anyone. Said he had friends who would get me even if he couldn't. Friends such as Daniel and the buff lifeguard, Jess, who, one would think, should have been duty-bound to come to my assistance that day.”
“I want a name. Who is he?”
Weese shakes his head.
“Tsk, tsk, tsk, Officer Ceepak. Shame. Are you really such a male chauvinist pig? Remember: behind every great man, there is a woman. Why, I believe … yes … I believe I even handed you several clues that should have pointed you in that general direction. Perhaps my subtle allusions were a tad too sophisticated for someone of your limited abilities. The Phantom card? The first one?”
“Yes?”
“Why, I believe there was a woman standing behind the man. And card number two? The Avenger? Why, look—another woman, wreaking revenge. Third card? Another from The Phantom and our hero is standing with another woman. And, if you look carefully, which is something I suggest you do the next time someone so graciously drops evidence into your lap, you will notice that, yes, indeedy—the woman is standing behind the man!”
Weese has this shit-eating grin on his face like he's oh-so-fucking-clever.
“But none of that really matters now does it? It's high noon. All is in readiness. The multitudes have assembled on the beach and boardwalk. I understand from my father that the Chamber of Commerce is expecting quite a turnout. Thousands and thousands of happy holiday revelers, none of whom, I'll wager, are particularly interested in dying today. But, alas, some may have to. For it is time for the triumph of the son! Time for the world to experience life under the son, as they say!”
“Who is she?”
“Someone quite capable of doing her job as well as I have done mine. You see, Mr. Ceepak, I did everything I could to help you catch me so you'd drop your guard and open the big Boogaloo BBQ on schedule. What a stupid name. Boogaloo BBQ.”
“Who?”
“Tell me—when you were with the army, did you study much military history? Specifically, Russian military history?”
“Some.”
“Then you must know about the legendary Lyudmila Mikhailovna Pavlichenko, the greatest female sniper who ever lived! I'm certain you've heard of her fabled exploits, how, during World War Two she single-handedly killed hundreds and hundreds of Germans.”
“Your wife?”
“Did you know that the Russians still encourage their little girls to become snipers? Oh, yes. Quite a proud tradition of it, actually.”
“Your wife?”
“I met her on the Internet, you know. Russian Brides Dot Com. The new world order of mail-order brides. My father helped, paid for everything. He was rather desperate for grandchildren but feared I couldn't bed a wife on my own, not given what he perceived to be my overwhelming lack of manliness. So, he bought me a wife when I graduated from college. Some children get a year in Europe, other a flashy sports car. Me? I got a Russian virgin.”
Ceepak heads for the wall phone.
“Natalia Shevlyakova Weese,” Weese continues, his eyes glazing over.
“Gus? Ceepak.”
“Oh, she's no beauty, I'll grant you that.”
“We need to find George Weese's wife.”
“Squat. Homely. Rather dour. But then again, the poor girl grew up in Kemerovo. It, I assure you, is a squalid armpit even more dreadful than fetid Sea Haven.”
Ceepak concentrates on the phone, blocks out Weese. “Malloy was with the wife yesterday,” he says to Gus.
“All she was looking for, like so many Russian girls these days, was a ‘nice, generous, American man.’ Translation? She wanted money. Preferably, cash. Hard currency. U.S. dollars.”
“Have Kiger check to see if any of the Weese family vehicles are missing.”
“Now, that would be stupid, Officer Ceepak, and Natalia is not stupid. Ugly, yes. Stupid, no.”
“Have them run her photo past any and all rental car agencies within a twenty-mile radius.”
“We're actually quite smart. Brilliant, really. You'll see. Natalia's tough, too. Scrappy. Resourceful. And, as you might suspect, she's also very heavily armed.”
Ceepak hangs up the phone.
“Where is she?”
“So much of this was her idea—a way to make our American fortune while simultaneously wreaking revenge on my childhood tormenters and my father. Natalia is something of a tactical genius.”
“Where is your wife?”
Weese glances up at the clock again.
“Where?” Ceepak barks.
Weese smiles.
“Waiting for a phone call.”
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
Shall we cut to the chase, gentlemen?”
Weese leans forward, brings his hands together.
“My father and his Chamber Of Commerce cronies must immediately transfer ten million dollars to an offshore bank account, the number of which I will provide to you. Their deadline is two P.M. When certain friends of ours, certain—oh, how shall I put this? Certain Russian mobsters? When these gentlemen advise me that the transfer is complete, I will instruct them to contact Natalia on her secure satellite phone with orders not to shoot a single sunbather.
“Once the money matter is taken care of, you, Officer Ceepak, you will escort me to the airport, where I will board Aeroflot flight fifteen to Moscow. Tomorrow, when I have arrived safely and have no Russian police or KGB or CIA following me—and we'll know if they are because, as I said, we have several financially interested, high-powered friends—when I reach my undisclosed location in the motherland, Natalia will lay down her weapon and depart from these shores.”
Weese has a faraway look in his eyes. Like he's been waiting ten years for this one moment. It hits me: he's the Mad Mouse. A timid, mousey guy we made so mad one day that now he's ready to wipe out an entire boardwalk full of innocent kids like maybe he used to be.
“By the way, you will never catch Natalia before she slips out of the country. She will not book passage on Aeroflot, so don't waste your time with amateur airport theatrics. Just know that she and I will one day reunite on a Baltic beach to split our share of the ten million dollars. Perhaps we'll even nibble caviar and sip vodka. Everything will be hor-a-show. That's Russian for hunky-dory.”
Weese sighs.
“You gentlemen should know that Natalia's sniper post is well stocked with provisions. Food. Water. She can remain hidden for quite some time now that I have kept you engaged long enough for her to properly secure her position.”
“What about your children?” asks Ceepak.
Weese shrugs. “My father wanted grandchildren so damn much, he can keep them. They're loathsome little creatures, actually. Filthy.”
The lawyer nervously twists his ear lobe. “I'm not certain the town fathers can raise ten million dollars in under two hours.”
“Of course they can,” scoffs Weese. “I'm not asking for actual cash. It's all electronic banking, counselor. We can do it online. Don't forget, my father is a mortgage broker with access to all sorts of lenders willing to provide money at very reasonable rates, or so he constantly claims in his annoying advertisements. The other merchants will surely chip in because—let's face it. If Natalia starts shooting, this town will never recover. Never. Two incidents
in one summer? ‘Welcome to Sea Haven. Have a Sunny, Funderful Day—Unless You Get Shot First.’ Not a very catchy slogan. I fear it would make a dreadful bumper sticker.”
“Your wife is setting you up,” Ceepak says. “She's working for the Russians. The mobsters.”
Weese ignores him.
“Mr. Ceepak, you have heard our demands. Ten million dollars. If the transfer is not completed by two P.M., Natalia will start taking out targets. Scores of them. Hundreds! Why, she might even break Lyudmila Pavlichenko's world record. Trust me. My little wife packed a great deal of ammunition.”
The lawyer looks like he's lost all his tan, like it all drained down to his underpants. His face is pale and white.
“Ten million dollars?”
Weese shrugs again.
“It's what the D.C. snipers asked for. Who knows—perhaps we should ask for more. The town fathers can certainly afford it. Besides, Natalia and I? We're much more lethal than those two Negroes down in D.C. Much smarter, too.”
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
Natalia Shevlyakova Weese rented another white minivan from the Avis in Avondale.
Makes sense. It's the vehicle they practiced with. Guess they'll dance with the one who brought them to the party. George Weese was right about one thing: he and his wife are pretty smart. They keep us looking for needles in haystacks—a boring white minivan in a town full of boring white minivans.
Natalia rented the white Plymouth Voyager with burgundy interior from Avis last Tuesday. Almost a week ago. So she's had ample time to find herself a prime parking space and stow her rental vehicle down by the boardwalk. She beat the crowds. Smart again.
“Will she shoot from the van?” I ask Ceepak as we drive down the block from headquarters to the municipal garage.
“Don't know. She's probably handpicked her ideal sniper post. Could be anywhere. A motel balcony. A water tank. Some other elevated spot on the boardwalk, maybe even another roller coaster. There's no way of knowing.” Ceepak shakes his head. I can tell he's mad at himself. “We should have kept her under surveillance. I let her drop off my radar.”
“Weese did his job,” I say. “He wasted our time, didn't say a word until he knew it was too late for us to do anything, too late to shut down the beach party. He did his job.”
“Roger that. Now it's time for us to do ours.”
We park beside a garbage truck and hustle inside the municipal garage to see if the first minivan has anything more to tell us.
“The wife, huh?” Dr. McDaniels rolls out from under the van on a mechanic's trolley. “That would explain that.” She nods toward one of her guys who's holding a plastic Baggie with a single strand of curly black hair. “Found it in the rear cargo bay. There's more on the passenger side headrest, but that only proves that Mrs. Weese was in the car with her husband.”
“Find anything else?”
“Just some Cheerios and Cheez-Its ground into the carpet. Under the seat cushions, too. Kids.”
Ceepak nods.
I notice two child safety seats. Guess George's son and daughter won't be throwing food at each other in this van again anytime soon.
“We need to focus,” Ceepak says, checking his watch. “We have less than two hours.”
I wonder if he sensed my mind wandering off to the land of crumbled Cheerios and Cheez-Its.
“It's the same old story, same old act. One step up and two steps back.”
Ceepak's quoting Springsteen again. Forcing himself to concentrate.
Dr. McDaniels hauls herself up, dusts off her shorts.
“Okay,” she says, like a professor rallying a drifting class discussion, “we know Who. We know Why. Now all we need to determine is How and, most important, Where Next.”
“The van,” Ceepak says, staring at the bland white automobile, trying to will the sheet metal to surrender its secrets.
“Just your typical kidmobile,” McDaniels says. “Did I mention the half-empty juice boxes I found in the back seat? The chewed crayons? Doesn't matter. They don't give us diddly.”
“Mrs. Weese purchased the vehicle for her son. Mr. Weese provided the resident beach pass bumper sticker to encourage frequent visits from his grandchildren …”
He trails off.
“How firm are your trajectory numbers?” Ceepak suddenly asks Dr. McDaniels.
“Firmer than your butt. We reworked them. Ten times. Our best projection comes from the parking lot outside Saltwater Tammy's because we had those two definitive points to work with. The entry hole in the plate glass window, the second hole in the bin of Red-Hots hearts.”
“We have our straight line,” Ceepak says.
“And our angle of impact.”
“Right.”
“The line took us straight out to that empty parking space. The angle took us up to an elevation of six feet, eight inches at the front end of the rectangular parking space and climbed up to six-nine-point-five at the rear.”
“Suggesting the minivan had been parked there prior to the shooting.”
“Only empty space in the whole damn lot,” Dr. McDaniels says. “And it wasn't there earlier when Officer Boyle went hunting for a spot.”
“We can surmise the shots were fired from this vehicle. The perpetrator then drove away while Danny and I tended to Ms. Landry's wounds.”
“I'm certain of it,” McDaniels says. “The shot came from this goddamn minivan. There's a little bit of an oil leak underneath. We could go back to Schooner's Landing, take samples of any fluids pooled in that parking space.”
“No time. Won't help.”
“Yeah. I know. Got my shorts dirty for nothing.”
“What about the roof?” Ceepak suggests.
“The van is six-six.”
“The bipod would add another two inches.”
“Six-eight.”
“She could have stood on the rear bumper,” Ceepak says. “Rested her rifle on the rooftop.”
McDaniels nods. “Steadied her shot.”
We all walk around to the back of the van.
“Maybe,” McDaniels says, shaking her head, disappointed at what she sees. “Maybe not. Be damn difficult.”
There's a bulky bike rack rigged to the rear of the minivan. Maybe the older kid brought his tricycle with him down the shore. Maybe George and Natalia have his-and-hers trail bikes. The rack's arms poke out at least two or three feet and spread sideways. They'd get in your way if you wanted to stand on the rear bumper and squeeze off a few rounds from a rifle resting on the roof.
I think about those two screaming kids back at the Weese house. They're going to have a lot more to scream about if they wind up being raised by their grandparents when mom and dad are locked up in the state pen, that's for sure. Not only that, they'll grow up knowing their parents were cold-blooded killers.
“Poor kids,” I mumble aloud. “That's a lot of crap to carry around.”
“Danny, what did you just say?” Ceepak demands.
Busted. I feel like I'm back in grade school: if you have something to say, Mr. Boyle, why don't you share it with the whole class?
“Nothing. I was just thinking. My mind kind of drifted.”
“Danny, just repeat what you said.”
“I'm sorry. I know I should be focusing on the task at hand.”
“Danny—what did you say?” Ceepak isn't fooling.
“‘Poor kids. It's a lot of crap to carry around.’ That's all. I figure their two kids will have—”
“Crap. Kid's crap,” McDaniels echoes, sounding like she's in some kind of trance. “Carrying it around.”
“Suitcases.” Ceepak sounds like he's in the trance with her. “Collapsible crib, playpen, stroller …”
“Bingo!” Dr. McDaniels hollers. “Guys?” she calls out to her CSI crew. “We need a ladder. Pronto! I need to be taller!”
The two CSI guys root around in the garage, push aside rakes and shovels. Something heavy and metal crashes to the floor.
“Whoops. Sor
ry.”
More rummaging. Steel scrapes against concrete.
“Here we go.”
One of the guys digs out a three-step aluminum ladder from behind this clump of signs and poles.
“That'll work,” Ceepak says.
The guys set it up alongside the minivan.
“Doctor?” Ceepak offers McDaniels the first look.
“You do it,” she says. “I'm afraid of heights.”
Ceepak climbs up the three short steps, puts his hands on his hips, looks up and down the roofline.
“You were right, Danny.”
“How tall is Mrs. Weese?” Dr. McDaniels asks up to Ceepak. “The Russian one, I mean.”
“Five-two, five-one. Short. Maybe four-eleven.”
“Good thinking, Boyle.”
I have no idea what I've said or thought that deserves so much praise.
“It explains the foot steps,” she continues. “Why Weese got out at Oak Street, walked along the side of the vehicle. Probably checking up on her.”
“Definitely,” says Ceepak. I still have no idea what the two of them are so excited about. “Weese seemed to have a vast knowledge of the D.C. sniper case.”
“So he knew how the shooter, usually the kid Malvo, hid in the trunk,” McDaniels adds. “Had that special rifle hole bored through the rear of their Chevy Caprice.”
“Affirmative. Weese also intimated that he and Natalia were smarter and potentially more lethal than the D.C. team.”
“He could be right,” McDaniels says. “This is pretty damn clever.”
“What?” I have to say it.
Ceepak climbs down off the stepladder.
“Take a look.”
I climb up. Look at the roof. It's got a rack on it. Black bars running up the sides, two adjustable struts spanning the width. You could put lumber or a Christmas tree up here and tie it down with bungee cords.
“Look closely, Danny,” Ceepak says. “Examine the details.”